


Salvation

by Aseraphfell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season 1, also this is BARELY edited lmao, it is literally. just 1 x 21, it's supposed to be a novelization of 1 x 21, this was for a fan project that never really took off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29838402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aseraphfell/pseuds/Aseraphfell
Summary: They sat in silence for a little while, watching the house again. From the window, they could see Monica and her husband cleaning up the dinner table, idly chatting as they picked up the dishes and headed for the sink. They looked happy. Content.And whether they would keep being happy and content would depend on tonight.Whether Sam could be happy or content would depend on tonight.
Kudos: 1





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be part of a fan project that never really took off, and I got too busy to join the efforts to cobble the rest of the project together, so I exited the project. Figured I might as well post this here though. It's literally just 1x21 SALVATION, but as a fic lmao. Enjoy, I guess?

It was a quiet dawn.

Save for the wind blowing in from the clerestories and the faint sound of rain pattering outside, the morning was silent – peaceful, almost – as Pastor Jim Murphy idly leafed through a bible. He had a sermon in a few hours, and while he has been a man of the word for more than a few years, it never did hurt to read scripture for yourself every now and then. Can’t give from an empty cup, and all that.

But there was something about this quiet that gave him pause. He looked up, at the light filtering in through the stained glass windows, depicting the Stations of the Cross. It was the same feeling of stillness he got whenever he stepped out to an empty city in the early hours, when the rest of the world was asleep, and he was the only one walking around the dimly-lit street.

It felt like a liminal space in time, like the world was waiting for something.

What a lovely day.

The church doors opened. He turned to it, putting on a friendly smile as a girl stepped inside. The church was always open, after all, no matter if the world was asleep.

“Good morning,” he greeted. The girl was staring at her shoes, holding herself together in a way that Pastor Jim had grown familiar with, in all his years of service. People don’t come to church when the sun has barely risen for happy reasons. “Can I help you?”

The girl only stepped past a few pews, and then took a seat at the very edge of one, like she was unsure of what she was even doing here. Jim’s smile softened into something more pitying, and he stepped down from the altar, approaching her slowly so as not to spook her.

“I kinda…” she started, voice soft, “Need to talk.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” he said, stopping by the pew in front of her. He placed his hands on top of it, leaning on his arms. People always felt more comfortable talking about things when he carried himself with casual ease.

“I’ve done some things,” the girl said. “Not good things.”

“Well, there’s always forgiveness for us, if we seek it,” Jim said.

The girl looked up at him, relief almost shining in her eyes, even when her shoulders were still drawn together in an attempt to make herself as small as possible. “For everyone? Are you sure?”

“I like to say salvation was created for the sinners,” Jim said. He sat. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

The girl hesitated for a moment, glancing down at her shoes again. After a minute, she spoke. “Well, I’ve lied. A lot,” she said, “I’ve stolen. I’ve lusted.”

Pastor Jim only listened. He’s heard a thousand confessions in his lifetime. Another won’t faze him. And it wasn’t supposed to. His job was to help people reconcile with the Lord, not dole out judgement, or punishment, or anything like that.

“And the other day, I met this man,” the girl continued, frowning slightly, mostly to herself. “A nice guy, you know? We had a really good chat, sort of like this.”

He nodded, understanding.

“Then I slit his throat and ripped his heart out through his chest.”

The girl blinked. Her eyes were black.

Pastor Jim stood, abruptly, knocking into the pew behind him with how fast he moved.

“Does that make me a bad person?” the girl – no, _demon,_ asked, tilting its head as if curious.

“I know what you are.” Jim stepped back into the aisle, slowly backtracking towards the altar. “You can’t be here. This is hallowed ground.”

“Oh please. Maybe that works in the minor leagues.” The demon stood, a smile lazily spreading on its face. “But not with me.”

Jim bolted.

He ran for the door behind the pulpit, slamming it open with his shoulder and rushing straight down the stairs. There wasn’t time to look back. He couldn’t risk looking back. He fumbled with the necklace he kept hidden under his collar, breaking the thin chain as he yanked it off his neck just to get the key on it.

He could hear the footsteps behind him, growing fainter as he got away, but unwavering in their steadiness.

He got to the bottom of the stairs, shoved the key into the lock and twisted it open. There was a plank by the wall – he always kept it ready, hunters were _always_ ready for anything – and he slid it into the slots on the interior side of the doors, barricading them. He turned to the rest of the room, eyeing the weapons and discarding options as he looked at them, before rushing for the chest in front of him. He had blades there, carved with sigils, blessed; there was one with a blessing marked onto it, and he picked it up –

Behind him, a crash.

He turned around to see the demon standing by the doorway, the wood holding it closed earlier nothing but splinters at its feet.

Jim threw the knife. It sailed towards the demon’s head.

It angled its head to the side, hand coming up to catch the knife in its hand, blade-first.

“You throw like a girl.”

“What do you want?” Jim asked, backing away. The demon stepped to the left, forcing him to move the opposite direction, and it hit him that they were circling around each other, like predator and prey.

“The Winchesters,” the demon said.

“I haven’t spoken to John Winchester in over a year, you’re wasting your time,” he said.

The demon raised an eyebrow.

He frowned. “Even if I did know where they were, I’d never tell you.”

The demon smiled. It flipped the blade in its hand. “I know.”

Then it slashed its arm in an arc, lightning fast, that Jim didn’t even realize what had happened until his neck felt warm and his shirt was sticking to his chest. He staggered back, hands grasping at his throat.

His fingers were red.

He tripped on something as he moved, losing his balance and landing back harshly on a chair, legs awkwardly splayed out in front of him as his spine hit the back of it. He tried to press his hands to his throat, keep the wound closed, but his fingers were shaking too much.

Above him, the demon stood, that small smile still on its face. He stared at it, as he continued to try to keep his hands on his neck, as his fingers started to feel cold, as his arms stopped listening to him and dropped to his side.

It was a quiet dawn.

Save for the blood dripping down Jim Murphy’s stained fingers and onto the floor, the morning was silent – peaceful, almost – as Meg Masters walked out the church doors.

* * *

Had anyone been able to see their motel room right now, they would have called the cops.

There were newspaper clippings tacked to the walls, old printouts taped over whatever space the clippings haven’t taken over; photos, ripped-out pages, missing persons’ posters written over with markers, scribbled-on maps; strings and pins connecting everything together – a sight that would have been normal to see at some tinhatter’s basement, or a police station, but considering they were in a seedy motel at Manning Colorado, Sam thought that anyone walking in would definitely conclude they needed to call the authorities.

Lucky them, he supposed.

He eyed the colt, set right on the desk where his father was sitting by. That was it. The key to ending it all, the key to ending the nightmare that had been his entire life. One shot from that, and it could be over.

“So this is it.” His father motioned to the room around them. “This is everything I know.”

Everything he knew, fitting into a few walls of a rundown motel room.

John seemed to be able to read exactly what Sam thought, because he said, “Look, our whole lives, we’ve been searching for this demon, right? Not a trace, just, nothing.” He paused. “Until about a year ago. For the first time, I picked up a trail.”

Dean, from where he’d been silently wearing down a spot in the carpet from his pacing, stopped. “That’s when you took off.”

John nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. The demon must have come out of hiding. Of hibernation.”

What was it, a damn bear?

“Alright, so what’s this trail you found?” Dean asked, moving towards their father’s desk.

“It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California – houses burned down to the ground,” their father said. Dean glanced at the literal wall of evidence in front of them, eyeing the newspaper clippings. “It’s going after families, just like it went after us.”

“Families with infants?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, the night of the kid’s six-month birthday.”

Sam frowned. “I was six months old that night?”

“Exactly six months.”

Fitting.

“So basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason.”

Dean turned to him, Sam met his stare.

“The same way it came for me?” Sam asked, because that had to be something, right? This demon wasn’t just indiscriminately targeting families, targeting children, there _had_ to be a reason for it. A modus of sorts. “So mom’s death – ”

Dean turned away first.

“ - Jessica – it’s all because of me?”

His brother looked tired. “We don’t know that, Sam.”

“Oh, really, ‘cause I’d say we’re pretty damn sure, Dean,” Sam said, tone sharp.

Dean’s voice was just as stern. “For the time, what happened to them was not your fault.”

_“Right._ It’s not my fault, but it’s _my problem_ -”

“No, it’s not your problem, it’s _our_ problem.”

“Okay.” Their father stood. Sam paused. They’d been yelling. “That’s enough.”

He looked away, turning to the window if only so he didn’t have to see his brother and father’s faces. He could practically hear John’s weariness.

Footsteps. His father was approaching him.

“So why is he doing it?” Sam asked, turning back in frustration. Dean had moved to the desk, checking the papers strewn about it, eyeing the colt. “What does he want?”

“Look, I wish we had more answers. I do. I’ve always been one step behind it,” his father said. “Look, I’ve never gotten there in time to save…”

The man looked away. Unhappy. Frustrated. Dean, from the desk, glanced up at him.

Sam clenched his fists. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down.

“Alright, so how do we find it? Before it hits again?” Dean asked, hesitantly looking at their father, but eager to move the conversation along.

John took a moment, breathing in deeply and letting it out in a sigh. “There’s signs,” he said. “It took me a while to see the pattern, but it’s there in the days before these fire signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms.”

Dean leaned back, realization dawning on his face. He and Sam shared a look.

“And then I went back and checked, and…”

“These things happened in Lawrence,” Dean said.

John nodded. “The week before your mother died,” he said.

Dean glanced to Sam again, but Sam said nothing. Their father turned to him.

“And in Palo Alto,” he said. “Before Jessica.”

Sam worked his jaw, shifting on his feet.

“And these signs,” John continued. “They’re starting again.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down.

Sam looked at the Colt, avoiding Dean’s gaze, and then turned to his father.

“Where?” he asked.

John’s voice was grave.

“Salvation, Iowa.”

* * *

It was overcast, outside, storm clouds rolling overhead making everything colder than it already had been. The muted sunlight washed everything in grey, and if Sam really squinted, the asphalt could almost blend into the rest of the dirt and the muddy fields around them.

Salvation, Iowa. The demon could be there.

They were so close. It was almost unbelievable, really, that they’d even gotten this far. Sam knew the story of his mother’s death, it’s only the reason for how his life’s turned out, after all, but now that he thought about it, perhaps it never really cemented in his brain. At least, not until Jessica. Not until a year ago, when he’d been dragged back into this mess by a simple Lady In White hunt, and then walked right into its open arms after the demon had killed Jess.

It was like leaving home, somewhat. He’d never really thought the day would come until he was on a bus stop, miles away, realizing _Oh god._ He’d done. He’d left home. He had a shiner on his face to remember it by and a few thoughts still ringing in his head from the shouting match, but he’d done it.

And now he was staring out at an ugly grey fielding on an ugly grey day, about to kill the son of a bitch that started all of this.

Dean was turning off to the side. Sam turned his attention back to the road. Ahead, their father’s truck had pulled over.

“God damn it!” The man slammed the car door as he left the driver seat, clearly frustrated.

Dean was out of the Impala in a second, Sam stepping out the passenger seat after him.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

Their father didn’t seem to hear them, instead slapping the side of his car. “Son of a _bitch.”_

_“What is it?”_

John took a moment to breathe, and then stuffed his hands into his pockets, like he was trying not to hit something again. Sam leaned on the Impala.

“I just got a call from Caleb,” he said.

“Is he okay?” Dean asked.

“He’s fine,” John said. After a moment of hesitation, he looked to Sam, then to Dean. “Jim Murphy’s dead.”

“Pastor Jim?” Sam asked, remembering nights spent at the church when he and Dean had been younger and hadn’t quite grasped the art of hustling just yet. When their father used to leave and not have enough to have them stay at a motel.

John swallowed, like he couldn’t even dare to get the words out. He nodded.

_“How?”_

“Throat was slashed,” his father said. “He bled out.”

Dean looked down, having gone still when John had broken the news. After a second, he turned away.

Sam did as well.

“Caleb said they found traces of sulfur at Jim’s place.”

Sam froze.

“A demon?” Dean asked.

John nodded. Sam curled and uncurled his hands. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out -

“ _The_ demon _?”_

“I don’t know,” John said. “Could be he just got careless, he got slipped up.” He waves a hand in a vague gesture. “Maybe the demon knows we’re getting close.”

Sam steeled his jaw. They were. And soon they would be close enough to shoot it. He would be close enough to shoot it.

Dean nodded, shoulders straightening. “What do you want to do?”

“Now we act like every second counts,” John said, voice growing stern and steady like Sam was used to. “There’s two hospitals and a health center in this county. We split up, cover more ground. I want _records,_ I want a list of every infant that’s going to be six months old in the next week.”

Sam frowned. “Dad, that could be dozens of kids. How do we know which one’s the right one?”

“We check ‘em all, that’s how,” his father said. “You got any better ideas?”

Sam hesitated.

“No, sir,” he said, softly.

He saw Dean spare him a glance, but turn back to their father. The man had already given out orders.

Dean nodded, and the two of them turned, heading back to their cars. Sam started to slip back into the passenger seat.

John stopped, leaning on his car. Dean halted in his steps to look back at him.

“Dad?” he asked.

John was silent for a bit. He sighed. “Yeah,” he said, slowly turning around to face them. His eyes were glassy. He stuffed his hands back into his pockets again.

Sam just looked at him.

“It’s Jim,” he said, voice almost shaky. He never sounded like that. “Y’know, I can’t – ” He cut himself off, saying nothing for a moment.

Sam and Dean watched, unable to say anything.

John drew in a slow breath.

After a beat, his expression hardened, something akin to rage in his eyes. _That,_ Sam was more familiar with.

“This ends. _Now,”_ John said. “I’m ending it. I don’t care what it takes.”

He turned back to his car, wrenching the door open and taking the driver’s seat. The engine rumbled to life.

Sam settled down in the Impala, Dean following after him, silent.

_Yeah,_ Sam thought, watching his father’s taillights get more distant. _Me too._

* * *

They split up – while John Winchester took Salvation’s Children Hospital as a nurse, Dean was at another, posing as an FBI agent. Sam’s pick was to be an officer, investigating an old arson case, looking for children that would turn six months old on the day. His demeanor and height (and fake badge), and the fact that infants were involved were more than enough to get people to cooperate, not ask too many questions as to why such a young cop was involved in a case that would be just as old as he was.

Just as he’d excepted, there were a lot of kids who fit the bill for their demon; he wasn’t sure if they were going to finish investigating every single one in one night, and who knew how much time they had until the demon struck? With their luck, they’d only know _after_ the damn thing had already taken another victim.

Still, he was a hunter, and he owed it to the potential victims to do his job. He owed it mom. Owed it to Jess. So he copied down name after name, address after address, making sure to keep a critical eye out for anything that might stick out, not that there was any.

These were just kids, after all, barely even aware of their own lives at this point.

It was hours, before he’d finished copying everything down. He was already flipping through his notebook as he left Salvation Medical Center, going through the list of places he needed to go and check before the day ended. Maybe he could look through the local newspapers, or dad’s notes again, see if any addresses had freak weather and electrical storms near them –

He dropped his notebook, clutching his head as a sharp pain struck between his eyes.

There was a woman.

No, there was not a woman. He was just seeing a woman, standing in a dark room, lit only a small, cube-shaped lamp that had tiny ballerinas flitting about its surface as the image inside the lamp looped. The woman was looking down at a bundle in her arms and setting the child into its crib - the scene seemed to skip, like Sam was watching a faulty tape recording, and there was a shadow standing over the crib instead. A shadow with bright yellow eyes.

Another skip, the mother was looking up towards the window over her child’s crib. There was the sound of a train, blaring loudly outside.

The woman turned. He could see her face. Kind, wide eyes; a lovely smile; dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves.

He blinked, nearly tripping backwards as he staggered. The day was still bright, even if it was overcast. The storm clouds haven’t left.

Right. He was Salvation Medical Center.

He heaved in a breath, chest tight, squinting as images flashed through his mind’s eye again. A child’s lamp, a clock, a woman opening a door and seeing a shadow over a crib, the mother turning from the window, the sound of a train blaring down the road.

He hadn’t even realized he’d shut his eyes and put his hands to his head again.

Hands shaking, he picked up his notebook from the ground, stuffing it back into his bag in frantic, jerky movements, struggling with the zipper and fumbling to take out a map of. “Train,” he muttered, trying to unfold the damn thing.

It took him too long for his liking to fully open it up, but thankfully, he managed to. He scanned the map, trying to look for any train tracks, anything from the addresses he’d copied down, and spotted a railroad by a familiar name.

Grace Avenue.

Of course.

Since the Impala was with Dean, he had to walk all the way to Grace Avenue. It was to find it, thankfully – small mercies – at least in between the constant headache of his visions flashing in his head. They were getting more detailed, the more he got closer to Grace Avenue.

A particularly sharp one struck him as he finished cutting his way through the park, forcing him to slow down and reach a hand up to his head again, moving instinctively like that would stop the pain. There was the lamp again, and the woman, opening the door to the baby’s bedroom. There was the shadow standing over it. And then the woman was looking out towards the windows again, and he could see the shape of them, could see the tree standing close to them, painting a dark shape against the white walls of the house.

He stared out at the house in front of him as the headache ebbed, the pain between his eyes lessening. He realized he was actually staring at it, instead of just looking at a vision, because this time it didn’t feel like he was straining his eyes to get a good look at what he was seeing, like he usually did when one of his fugues hit him.

Was it the house? The walls were white. There was a tree standing next to a bunch of windows.

On the street, there was a woman, walking down the sidewalk, holding an umbrella with one hand and pushing a pram with the other. A car drove by, honking, and she turned to give it a wave – Sam could see her face.

Kind, wide eyes; a lovely smile; dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves.

And she had a baby.

Sam crossed the street.

“Hi,” he said, offering a hand to hold the pram. The rain around them was easing up. He nodded towards her umbrella. “Here, let me hold that for you. You look like you don’t need that anymore.”

The woman laughed, accepting his help and closing her umbrella. “Oh, thanks.”

Sam looked down at the baby, pretending to be enamored at the sight of the child. “She’s gorgeous, is she yours?”

“Yeah,” the woman said, pride in her voice as she hooked her umbrella to the pram’s handle.

“Oh, wow, hi,” Sam said, cooing over the baby. He let go of the pram as the mother took hold of it again, offering his hand out to her in a sudden gesture, like he’d just remembered something. “Oh, sorry, I’m rude – I’m Sam. I just moved in down the block.”

“Oh, hey! I’m Monica,” the woman said, taking his hand to shake it. She motioned to the pram, gently setting her hand on the hood of it. “This is Rosie.”

“Rosie?” Sam hunched over a bit to properly look into the pram. “Hi, Rosie.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Monica said.

“Thank you,” Sam said. Rosie stared up at him, silent, staying still in her little stroller, as if she were looking at something particularly interesting when she was looking at Sam. “She’s such a good baby.”

Monica smiled, looking down at her child with fondness. “I know. I mean, she – she never cries. She just stares at everybody.”

Sam could see that. The baby’s wide eyes were fixated on him, something knowing behind them. He looked away first as Monica turned back to him.

“Sometimes she looks at you and I swear it’s…it’s like she’s reading your mind,” she said.

He glanced back down. The baby was still staring.

“What about you, Monica, have you lived here long?” Sam asked instead.

Monica pointed to the house near them, the same one Sam had been looking at earlier. Number 1726. “My husband and I, we bought our place just before Rosie was born.”

“And how old’s Rosie?”

“Six months today,” she said.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He literally shouldn’t be surprised, but _damn it,_ was it too much to hope that sometimes innocent people could just live their lives without getting screwed over by fate?

Thankfully, Monica mistook his slight pause for surprise. “She’s big, right? Growing like a weed.”

Sam turned back to Rosie. He wondered, just how aware the child was. He wondered if she knew what was going to happen to her. “Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile.

He wondered if she was going to grow up just like him.

Monica’s smile was faltering as Sam continued to look at Rosie.

“Monica – ” He tried, then stopped. What was he going to do? Tell her the truth? Tell her she and her family needed to uproot their whole lives because some stranger had a vision that she was going to die? Tell her that her baby was probably psychic and that some demon was targeting children like her, and he knew this because _he_ had lived through the same thing?

What the hell do you say to people with normal lives?

“Yeah?” Monica asked.

“Just, uh,” he said, instead, swallowing down everything that had been at the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t say that. There was a reason hunting was a thankless job, why they hunted in the first place. So the rest of the world could live in peace, unaware of everything that existed around them, in the corners of their room, under their beds, in the sinister shines of strangers’ eyes. “Just take care of yourself, okay?”

Monica nodded, clearly a little weirded out, but she kept the friendly note to her voice. “Yeah, you too, Sam. We’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.”

He watched her walk away and continue down the sideway towards her house, he himself moving back across the street.

“Oh, look, there’s daddy!” she cooed, as Sam watched a car pull into the driveway. She stopped her pram right by it.

Had they been like this, before his mother had died? He had no memories of whatever life his father and Dean had led before it, of course – he’d been six months old, apparently, of course he didn’t have any memories – but had they been like that? A happy couple with their children, living in a single neighborhood without the need to move around every two weeks or so, a picket fence and discussions about how the kids were growing up too fast?

Across the street, the father exited the car, greeting his wife with a hug and a kiss. Monica laughed.

Were his parents like that, his mother doting upon them and his father softer, kinder, less world-weary?

A flash of light across his eyes. He screwed them shut, trying to swat away whatever pain’s there, but to no avail. The headache was back, digging into his skull.

He saw the shadows cast by the lamp on the wall, the ballerinas dancing as they wound around the cube. He saw the toys, dangling over the baby’s crib, one of them a clown in a contorted position, smiling and laughing as it stared at him. He hated the damn things, and the painted white face of the clown in his vision just looked at him, with its impossibly wide smile as the room’s clock played a little lullaby.

It was still, its shadow on the wall unmoving along with the rest of the toys hung with it.

The clock’s second hand stopped.

On the wall, the clown’s shadow moved.

Whatever light from the moon that peeked through the room’s curtains seemed to retreat away from Rosie’s crib as something approached. Something that cast a dark shade into the rest of the room as it sauntered in, until Rosie was fully bathed in darkness. She stared up at whatever was looming over her crib.

Did she know?

Monica was down the hallway, her night gown a stain of white in the darkness of the house. She frowned at the sight of her baby’s door ajar, and she made her way to it, pushing it open to see if her husband had woken up to check on the baby.

There was something else standing by the crib.

It was not her husband.

“What are you – ”

The shadow turned to her, and her head knocked into the wall as she was slammed back towards it by something she couldn’t see, gasping at the sudden impact. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t thrash. With the shock still clogging her throat, she couldn’t scream.

Her body slid up the wall, slowly, and she whimpered as her skin grinded against the hardwood. The top of her head knocked onto the ceiling with a painful _thump,_ and then she was sliding onto the ceiling too.

_Just like mom,_ Sam thought, _Just like dad said mom died._

Rosie turned to her mother, helpless on the ceiling.

“Rosie!” Monica screamed, staring at her baby in fear, glancing to the shadow standing beside the crib. She looked like she was straining at something, a pinched look coming over her face.

She was trying to move. She was trying to move, not because she was afraid to die, Sam realized. She was afraid of anything happening to her daughter.

But she couldn’t move. She was stuck where she was, and both Sam and Rosie watched as red bloomed on her white nightgown. The sight of her, already a white patch on a darkened ceiling, and the spreading redness on her middle made her look like she had been cut in half – blood always looked black in the moonlight.

_“Rosie,”_ she cried again. A drop of blood hit Rosie’s face, black against the child’s skin. _“No.”_

The room burst into flames.

And Sam blinked awake. He was not in Rosie’s room. He was not watching Monica die. He was at Grace Avenue, in Salvation, Iowa, and he was standing in the middle of the street in the rain.

Everything was fine.

Except, he didn’t know for how long.

* * *

“A vision.”

Sam kept his eyes closed, kneading his forehead with his fingers. The pain had stopped a while ago. This was just a new headache entirely.

“Yes,” he said, and carefully enunciated his next words: “I saw the demon burning a woman on the ceiling.”

“And you think this is going to happen to the woman that you met, because?”

“Because these things happen, exactly the way I see them.” He opened his eyes this time, gesturing with his hand. This is why he hadn’t wanted to tell John, but he didn’t exactly have much of a choice.

Dean stood from where he was sitting beside their father on one of the motel beds. He crossed the room to the kitchenette Sam was currently seated at, heading for the sink with his empty mug of coffee. He needed a refill. “It started out as nightmares, then it started happening while he was awake.”

“Yeah, it’s like – I don’t know, it’s like, the closer I get to anything involving the demon, the stronger the visions get.” Sam did genuinely wince this time, as a pang of phantom pain struck between his eyes again.

John gave him a displeased look, and then turned to where Dean was fussing about the sink, coffee pot in hand. “Alright – when were you gonna tell me about this?”

Sam turned to him. He could hear his brother pause, and then turn as well.

“We didn’t know what it meant,” Dean answered.

“Alright, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone, and you _call me.”_

Dean looked at the man. He set the coffee pot down.

“Call you?” he asked, stepping in front of where Sam is sitting, effectively blocking him from their dad’s line of sight. “Are you kidding me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence, alright?” He motioned behind him, towards Sam. “Sam called you when I was _dying._ I mean, getting you on the phone? I got a better chance of winning the lottery.”

His voice had gone harsher, sharper. Sam stared at the back of his head, shoulders tense. They didn’t have time to throw punches at each other right now.

John held his gaze. Sam dragged his attention to his hands, on the table. It was like being fifteen again, sitting alone and hearing raised voices in another room.

After a minute, their father spoke: “You’re right,” he said, nodding.

Sam saw Dean lean back a bit, as if in recoil.

“Although I’m not too crazy about this new tone of yours, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

That was new. Sam felt the tension leave his shoulders, but not entirely, his body still clinging to old reactions.

Sam broke the silence, while Dean went back to the sink, finally breaking his staring match with their father. “Look guys, visions or no visions, we know this demon is coming tonight. And this family’s gonna go through the same hell that we went through.”

John shook his head, a cold sort of determination in his eyes as he turned to look at Sam. “No, they’re not. No one is, ever again.”

On the table, his phone rang.

What timing. He picked it up. Who could be calling at a time like this?

“Hello?”

_“Sam.”_

He frowned, confused. “Who is this?”

The voice was high and soft, and just on the edges of familiar. _“Think real hard, it’ll come to you.”_

He thought for a moment, trying to place where he’d heard them, and who would have any reason to contact him right now. There was no way it was any of his Stanford classmates – he’d ditched that phone a long time ago, when he’d decided to fully join the bandwagon of his family’s crusade – it didn’t sound like anyone he and Dean had helped in the previous months, not that they went around giving out their numbers. But it was still familiar, he’d definitely heard it before, that cloyingly sweet tone.

Recognition eased the frown off his face.

“Meg.”

John looked up. Dean, leaning on the sink and nursing his now half-full coffee cup, slowly pushed himself off of it. He glanced outside, just to check.

“Last time I saw you, you fell out a window,” Sam said. His father had stood.

_“Yeah, no thanks to you,”_ Meg said. _“That really hurt my feelings, by the way.”_

“Just your feelings?” Sam asked. “That was a _seven-story_ drop.”

_“Let me speak to your dad.”_

Sam glanced at John. The man, understanding, slowly made his way forward.

“My dad? I don’t know where my dad is,” Sam said.

Meg’s voice went cold. _“It’s time for the grown-ups to talk, Sam. Let me speak to him now.”_

His father was right beside him. Sam looked up, hesitant. Who knew what Meg had planned? Who knew how she even got his number?

The man nodded. Always ready to take the risk, always ready to throw everything away, the same way he’d dragged his two sons into the Impala one night and decided this was going to be their life now.

Sam handed him the phone.

Damn it.

* * *

John held Sam’s phone up to his ear, pacing as he answered. “This is John.”

_“Howdy, John. I’m Meg. I’m a friend of your boys,”_ the demon said. _“I’m also the one who watched Jim Murphy choke on his own blood.”_

John closed his eyes slowly, gritting his teeth. He stopped pacing.

_“Still there, John-boy?”_

“I’m here,” he bit out.

_“Well, that was yesterday,”_ the demon said, _“Today, I’m in Lincoln, visiting an old friend of yours. He wants to say hi.”_

There was a rustle, and then:

_“John, whatever you do, don’t give – ”_

Silence. It stretched on for longer than John would have liked.

“Caleb?” he tried.

Behind him, Sam and Dean went rigid, attentions caught. There was no answer from the phone. The call was still on.

“You listen to me,” John said, “He’s got nothing to do with anything. You let him go.”

_“We know you have the Colt, John.”_

He drew in a breath for a moment, jaw tense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_“Oh?”_ the demon said, _“Okay, listen to this.”_

There was a wet _squelch,_ and a pained whimper on the line, and then the sound of something thick running down in rivulets, hitting the floor in loud drops. Someone drew in a shaky gasp, and then coughed, and then tried to gasp in air again, but it ended up sounding like a sticky gurgle.

“Caleb?”

The gasping continued, the sounds getting shorter and shorter.

Choking.

That was the sound of choking.

“Caleb?!”

_“You hear that?”_ The demon was back. _“That was the sound of your friend dying. Now let’s try this again: we know you have the gun, John. Word travels fast. So as far as we’re concerned, you just declared war.”_ There was mirth in its voice. _“And this is what war looks like. It has casualties.”_

John was pacing again, restless.

“I’m gonna kill you, you know that?”

The demon laughed. _“Oh, John, please. Mind your blood pressure,”_ it said. _“So this is the thing – we’re gonna keep doing what we’re doing. And your friends? Anyone who’s ever helped you? Gave you shelter? Anyone you’ve ever loved? They’ll all die.”_

A pause.

_“Unless you give us that gun.”_

John stopped pacing, staring at the motel’s ugly tilework, except he wasn’t. In the kitchenette, Sam and Dean were watching him, a coiled sort of alertness in their postures.

_“I’m waiting, Johnny. Better answer before the buzzer.”_

His answer was almost a whisper. “Okay.”

_“I’m sorry? I didn’t quite get that.”_

“I said okay,” he repeated, a bit more tired. “I’ll bring you the Colt.”

Sam leaned forward, a questioning look on his face, but he didn’t do anything else. Even Dean looked unsure.

_“There’s a warehouse in Lincoln, on the corner of Wabash and Lake. You’re gonna meet me there.”_

John glanced at the clock. “It’s gonna take me about a day’s drive to get there.”

_“Meet me there at midnight, tonight.”_

“That’s impossible. I can’t get there in time, and I can’t just carry a gun on a plane.”

_“Oh, then I guess your friends die, don’t they?”_

John shut his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose, if only to stop himself from smashing the phone on the ground.

_“If you do decide to make it,”_ the demon said, _“Come alone.”_

There was a beep. The call had ended.

John lowered the phone and quietly handed it back to Sam, who was still staring at his father silently.

And miles away, in a dimly-lit basement, Meg Masters looked at the corpse of her latest victim. Its head was angled to the side in a way that its glassy eyes were staring straight at her. There was a deep, dark gash on its throat, stretched open like a smile, a vomit of red all over its neck and shirt.

She clicked her tongue disdainfully.

“What’re you looking at?” she muttered.

The corpse didn’t answer.

* * *

Sam leaned his weight on the tacky little piece of decoration that separated the beds from the kitchenette. This motel had awful taste in décor. It wasn’t helping the sour mood in the room. Behind him, he could hear Dean constantly stuffing and taking his hands out of his pockets, a nervous tick.

“So you think Meg is a demon?” Sam asked.

“Either that, or she’s possessed by one. It doesn’t really matter,” his father said.

“What do we do?” Dean asked.

“I’m going to Lincoln.”

Sam frowned. Behind him, Dean was more vocal, frustration rendering his voice tight.

_“What?”_

“It doesn’t look like we have a choice. If I don’t go, a lot of people die. Our friends die.”

“Dad, the demon is coming tonight. For Monica and her family. That gun is all we got, you can’t just hand it over,” Sam said, almost glaring at John. He would have gotten hell for that if the situation hadn’t been so dire.

“Who said anything about handing it over?”

Sam set his mouth to a thin line.

“Look, besides us and a couple of vampires, no one’s ever really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like,” John said.

It did nothing to dissuade Dean’s anger. “So, what, you’re just gonna pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?”

“Antique store.”

If John hadn’t been their father, Dean looked like he would have walloped the man.

“You’re going to hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn’t notice?”

“Look, as long as it’s close, she shouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” John said.

_Murphy’s Law,_ Sam thought. She’d probably shoot something to test it out, or find another way. She’s not that stupid.

“Yeah, but for how long? What happens if she figures it out?” Dean asked.

“I just…I just need to buy a few hours, that’s all.” Their father sounded, so, so tired, and Sam understood. He really did. Their whole lives have been spent – or at least _his_ whole life had been shaped – over the hunt for this demon, and they’re so close to the end but only by the skin of their teeth.

But if only the man could stop being so stupid.

“You mean for Dean and me,” he said, instead of everything else that had been lodged in his throat. “You want us to stay here…and kill this demon by ourselves?”

“No, Sam,” John said. “I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school – ”

What?

“ – I want Dean to have a home, I want – ” The man was getting choked up. He was actually getting choked up, voice breaking as he turned away, a vision of vulnerability that left a bad taste in Sam’s mouth.

Who was this man?

Sam had never met him in his life.

“I want Mary alive,” John said, a fragile set to his shoulders. “I just…I just want this to be over.”

Sam stared at the back of his father’s head, the realization that he had never really known John Winchester at all settling in his stomach. He didn’t think he ever would, really. All that had been lost before he was even old enough to understand what was going on with his family.

He turned to his brother, sharing a look with him.

_Yeah dad,_ he thought. _Us too._

Which was what found him and his father with the man’s truck parked in the middle of a muddy, rain-puddled road. Above them, several ways off to the side, the train roared past by, the sound of it deafening as it sped to its destination.

Sam gave his father’s stash of weapons another once-over. He was ready, having brought everything he could have thought of. The only problem was that this was a demon, something his family didn’t exactly have the resume of hunting down every Thursday or so. There were a thousand things his father couldn’t have thought of.

Behind them, the mud squished under running tires. Sam turned to the familiar sound of the Impala’s rumble.

Dean stepped out of the car minutes later, and their father closed the trunk of his own truck.

“You get it?” he asked.

Dean’s brow was pinched, obviously displeased, but he had a brown paper bag in his hands. He kept it close, for just a few seconds too long, before handing it over.

John took it from him and unwrapped it, carefully. Save for the marking on the Colt, the gun was almost identical.

“You know this is a trap, don’t you?” Dean asked. “That’s why Meg wants you to come alone?”

“I can handle her. I got the whole arsenal loaded. Holy water, Mandaic, amulets – ”

“Dad.”

John paused. “What?”

“Promise me something,” Dean said. He shifted on his feet.

“What’s that?”

“This thing goes south, just…just get the hell out of there,” Dean said. He sounded like he used to when Sam had been younger, and he’d asked if maybe, just maybe, they could stay in whatever town they’d been in for just a bit longer, if not for his then for Sammy’s sake. “Don’t get yourself killed, alright, you’re no good to us dead.”

Sam didn’t dare say anything at the way his brother’s voice had broken. Didn’t even dare show any indication he’d heard it crack.

“Same goes for you,” John said, looking at his son. Really looking at him. There was a fondness to his gaze, somewhat.

After a while, he spoke again. “Alright, listen to me. They made the bullets special for this Colt. There’s only four of them left, without them this gun is useless.” His look to Dean hardened. “You make every shot count.”

Dean didn’t answer, just looked back at his father. Sam had seen that look a thousand times before, a look searching for something.

“Yes, sir,” Sam answered instead.

“Been waiting a long time for this fight,” John said. “Now it’s here and I’m not gonna be in it. It’s your fight. You finish this. You finish what I started. You understand?”

He turned the Colt over, handle first, towards Dean.

Dean slowly wrapped his fingers around it. He still didn’t say anything, just took the gun.

“We’ll see you soon, Dad,” Sam said.

“I’ll see you later,” John said, nodding.

Sam moved to stand beside Dean, not wanting to get splashed by the mud for when the truck took off. Their father got into his truck, lumbering with that still-weary gait Sam was still having a hard time getting used to seeing to a man that struck such a harsh image in his mind. Eventually, the truck’s engine revved to life, and it lurched forward, getting further and further away as it drove off on the muddy road.

Sam and Dean stared at it. Neither of them could tell if this would be the last time or not.

“Later,” Dean whispered, to himself. Sam didn’t tell him he heard it.

* * *

He’d broken a few speeding laws on the way, but he’d made it. John Winchester stood in the cold evening, looking at the dark shape of the warehouse ahead of him - it was the only one in the area, corner of Wabash and Lake, as Meg had said, so there was no worry of it being the wrong one. There didn’t look to be anyone around yet, but then again, he didn’t think the demons would make it obvious that they already were around if they were waiting for him.

Still, he’d sped here fast enough to buy himself about an hour, and unless Meg had been loitering about here all evening, he should be alone right now. He should have time. 

John got out of the car. He took the antique fake out from inside his jacket’s lining, giving it a once-over - as long as he’d handed it over without too much fuss, Meg shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between this and the actual Colt. From a pocket, he took out a flask of Holy Water, and a rosary; he’d brought it along just in case.

Walking towards the warehouse, he kept his attention on his surroundings, eyes sharp for anything that might move too fast, anything that could signal an ambush. So far, it looked like he’d been right, there was nobody around save for him.

There was a hiss. He stopped and looked up.

Steam was coming out of a tank on the side of the warehouse, the crack hissing as the air escaped it. Was this an old processing plant?

And steam was still rising from a busted tank.

It was a hunch, but he made his way inside the warehouse, still keeping his alertness about him. As he’d suspected, there were pipes all over the place, lining the walls and the corridors of the building. It _was_ a processing plant, not just a storage warehouse. He could hear the sound of water running along the pipes around him, and one of them hissed out a cloud of steam as he walked past.

There was a valve, connected to a smaller, open pipe. He tried a tug. It gave at the slightest pressure. It was in working order.

He looked around. There had to be a way to get to the tank here somewhere.

A few minutes of walking found him a ladder, and as he looked up to where it led, it appeared to curve right to the outside. If he was correct in how he’d mentally mapped out the building as he’d scoured it, it should lead to where he’d seen the tank was earlier.

He felt the rosary beads in his pocket again.

John started climbing, making sure to keep his movements as quiet as possible. He couldn’t take the chance – even if he was alone now didn’t mean Meg wouldn’t arrive in a few seconds and hear him clambering around the place.

He slipped out of the open trapdoor, minding his head, and looked around, carefully holding onto the ladder as he looked for the tank –

There was someone on the ground.

John slid to the side, hiding behind the pillar the ladder was on, holding his breath. That had to be Meg. She didn’t look like she’d seen him. She was looking out to the street, like she was waiting for someone. He counted as he stayed behind the pillar. One, two, three…

On the ground, Meg stared out at the empty stretch of darkness in front of her. Had John Winchester just been a smidge unluckier than he already was, she would have seen him when she turned.

But he hadn’t been. He’d moved fast, and she’d turned two seconds too late.

She walked away after a moment.

And on the roof, John Winchester waited for just a breath more, before leaning over to check if she was still there. She wasn’t. The area was empty.

Careful to keep his quiet, he walked over to the tank. The lid thankfully didn’t make any noise when he opened it, blessedly well-maintained. He took out the rosary from his pocket and held it up, closing his eyes briefly. He wasn’t a religious man, but if the damn thing worked, then the damn thing worked.

_“Exorcizo te, creatura aquae. In nomine dei patris omnipotentis et in virtute spiritus sancti.”_

He dropped the rosary into the water.

There.

And now he just had to make sure to be quick and strike first when the time came.

He closed the lid of the water tank.

* * *

“Maybe we could tell them it was a gas leak,” Sam said. “Might get them out of the house for a few hours.”

Monica’s house stood to the side, as Dean had parked the Impala on the sidewalk a few ways off from it. They’d both been sitting in the car for hours now, watching the place.

The Colt sat cold between the both of them.

“Yeah, and how many times has that actually worked for us?” Dean asked, turning to him briefly.

“Yeah…” He trailed off, shifting in his seat. His view of the dashboard blurred as his eyes unfocused. After a moment, he spoke again, “We could always tell them the truth.”

Slowly, he dragged his eyes to his brother, just as Dean had done the same thing, turning to him and meeting his stare. They looked at each other for a beat.

And they seemed to agree: _“Nahhh.”_

Sam laughed, bringing his attention back to the dashboard. “I know. I know, it’s just…with what’s coming for these folks…”

Dean’s mirth faded fast as his expression settled back into something serious. “Sam, we only got one move and you know it, alright? We gotta wait for the demon to show itself and then we get it before it gets them.”

Sam kept his mouth shut. Slowly, Dean turned back to the house. He did the same.

In the dark of the street, it looked like it was almost floating on a backdrop of black.

“I wonder how dad’s doing,” Sam said.

Dean pursed his lips, displeased, but not at him. “I’d feel a lot better if we there backing him up.”

Sam snorted. “I’d feel a lot better if he were here backing us up.”

They sat in silence for a little while, watching the house again. From the window, they could see Monica and her husband cleaning up the dinner table, idly chatting as they picked up the dishes and headed for the sink. They looked happy. Content.

And whether they would keep being happy and content would depend on tonight.

Whether Sam could be happy or content would depend on tonight.

“This is weird.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“After all these years, we’re finally here,” Sam said. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“We just gotta keep our heads down and do our job, like always.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t like always.”

Dean paused. “True.”

The lights in the kitchen shut off, after a few minutes. Monica and her husband were turning in for the night. Any minute now, the demon would show up, and they could end it. Sam could end it.

“Dean, uh,” he said, before his brain could catch up with his mouth, “I wanna thank you.”

Dean turned to him, confused. “For what?”

“For everything,” Sam said. “You’ve always had my back, you know? Even when I couldn’t count on anyone, I could always count on you.” He looked away from the house to meet his brother’s eyes. “And I, uh – I don’t know, I just wanted to let you know.” He paused, then, “Just in case.”

Dean wasn’t having it.

_“Whoa, whoa, whoa –_ are you kidding me?”

Sam frowned. “What?”

“Don’t say _just in case something happens to you._ I don’t wanna hear that freaking speech, man,” he said, a look of rage in his eyes, but not at Sam. Never at Sam. Sam knew the look of Dean’s anger, he’d seen it directed at other hunters, at stubborn civilians, at their father. The anger wasn’t at him. It was at the fact that Sam was even in a situation where he’d said what he’d said.

Because Dean _has_ always had his back, Stanford and all. Dean has always been his big brother, and Dean’s angry, because the world has led Sam to say _just in case,_ sitting in a car on a mission where they could die because they’ve spent their lives hunting down a demon that destroyed any hope of normalcy they could have had. Because Sam’s life is this, instead of cramming in a little dorm for his finals and worrying about his grades like a normal person.

“Nobody’s dying tonight,” Dean said. “Not us, not that family, _nobody._ Except that demon. That evil son of a bitch ain’t getting any older than tonight, you understand me?”

Sam said nothing, only looked at his brother. Taking his silence for acquiescence, Dean turned back to the house.

For a moment, just a moment, Sam wondered if Dean ever let anyone get enraged on his behalf, if he ever let anyone care about him like he cared about everyone else.

* * *

The demon was standing in the middle of the room, facing away from the door, like she’d just arrived and was surveying the area. John nudged one of the doors open, making it squeak.

It turned, with the face of a young lady. Short, blonde hair; red jacket; a far-off look in her eyes like she wasn’t quite there, a strange shine to her irises like she was wearing someone else’s skin. She smiled at him.

“John, you made it,” the demon said. “Too bad, really, I was hoping to kill more of your friends.”

John stopped a few feet away from it, not eager to bridge the distance. He let a small smile grace his face, unwilling to give any nervousness away. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I can see where your boys get their good looks.” It was making small talk now? “Though I must admit, considering what they say about you, I thought you’d be…” The demon eyed him head to toe. “Taller.”

He stared at it, expression unchanging.

The demon looked amused. “Well, aren’t you the chatty one,” it said. It slowly walked towards him, gait leisurely. “You wanna get to business? Fine. Why don’t you hand over the gun?”

“If I give you the fun, how do I get out of here?”

“If you’re as good as they say, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

He looked it in the eye, even as it came to a stop in front of him. “Maybe I’ll just shoot you.”

The demon simpered. “You wanna shoot me, baby? Go ahead. There’s more where I came from.”

On cue, a shadow moved in the corner of his eye. John turned to see a man walking towards them.

No, not a man. His shoulders were stiff, his walk stilted like he wasn’t quite used to having legs, and he had that same glassy look in his eyes that Meg had, despite the fact that he was clearly alert as he approached them. Like he wasn’t quite there. Like he was wearing someone else’s skin.

“Who the hell’s that?” John asked.

“He’s not nearly as fun as I am, I can tell you that,” Meg said.

Ah, backup.

“So I suggest you give us the gun.”

John stared at the second demon as it came to a stop beside Meg. It stared back. Its eyes were blank, and yet John could still feel like he was being put under a spotlight.

He looked away. Meg held a hand out.

_“Now.”_

He held her gaze for a moment longer. Then, slowly, he lifted the gun from where he’d hidden it in his jacket, and handed it over, handle first.

Meg curled careful fingers around it, before lifting it up to get a better look at it. “This is the Colt?”

John gave a jerky nod.

Meg shot him a suspicious glance, brow arched, but turned and handed it over to the second demon. “What do you think?”

The other demon looked down at it, turning it over to give it a good inspection. After a moment, it looked back to John, slowly lifting the gun to aim to the ceiling.

It clicked the hammer back.

John kept his eye on it. If he could move fast enough, he could hit the wrist holding the gun, knock it out of its hands and grab it. He could even duck and tackle the demon’s knees and wrestle the gun out of its control. Or he could simply dodge, run, book it out of there.

The demon swiveled the gun to Meg and fired.

In the dark of the warehouse, the light was an explosion, even for just the brief moment that it was there. John flinched back, and as did Meg – and when the light died down, they both stared at Meg’s bloody chest.

_“You shot me!”_ Meg yelled, looking down at the red stain. _“I can’t believe you just shot me!”_

The other demon didn’t even blink, turning back to John instead. “It’s a fake,” it said, voice raised, and threw the gun to the side where it clanked loudly against a pipe and disappeared into the darkness.

John took a step back. Meg looked up, realization breaking through the shock of being shot.

Shit.

“You’re dead, John,” Meg said, taking a step forward. John slowly took another one back. The door was behind him. “Your boys are _dead._ ”

“I’ve never used the gun before, how could I know it wouldn’t work?”

“I’m so not in the mood for this, _I’ve just been shot!”_

He cracked a smile. “Well then, I guess you were lucky the gun wasn’t real.”

Meg smiled back, teeth bared. “That’s funny, John. We’re gonna strip the skin from your bones, but that was funny.”

There’s a loud burst, sudden like gunshot, and both Meg and the other demon turned towards the pipes as a cloud of steam escapes from one of them.

The gun.

It’d hit the pipes hard enough to damage it.

John turned and ran. 

They were at the higher levels, and down the corridor was the ladder that led down to where he’d been inspecting the pipes earlier when he’d gotten here first. He closed the door behind him and headed for it, quickly climbing down as he heard the door behind him being kicked off its hinges. The demons were at his heels, running as fast as their possessed bodies would take them.

He hopped down the last few rungs and sprinted towards the pipes, where he could see the familiar valve he’d tested earlier. He turned it. Water gushed out of the open pipe.

Meg and the other demon turned the corridor, halting as they see the water and John standing by the pipes. Good on them for having the sense to know something about this was off.

There was a grate under them, and whatever water had burst out was getting drained there, unable to reach them. They shared a look, and after a second, Meg nodded towards the water. The other demon stepped forwards.

His shoes began to burn.

The demon screamed, jerking backwards quickly back towards the grate. When he looked back up at John, he looked livid.

“Holy water, John,” Meg said. “Real cute.”

John just smiled. He turned on his heels and ran. It wasn’t over yet, but he’d bought himself some time.

* * *

The only lights on the house were the ones on the top floor now. The bedroom, according to Sam’s visions. He kept his eyes on it.

Beside him, Dean lowered his phone from his ear. He’d been trying to call their father for minutes now.

“Dad’s not answering,” he said.

“Maybe Meg was late,” Sam said. “Maybe cell reception’s bad.”

“Yeah, well,” his brother said, and left it at that, letting his frustration seep into the air and do the talking.

The car radio buzzed a thin line of static. The light on it flickered. Sam frowned, watching as the needle swung from one end to the other. He sat up in his seat as he heard a murmur from it, the volume coming in bursts.

“Dean, wait. Listen.”

He cranked the volume up, the static flaring with it. Then he turned the dial, fishing out the distinct murmur amongst the frequencies.

It sounded like someone reciting an incantation.

Around them, the wind picked up, leaves blowing by the car as a sudden gust hit. The street lamps flickered, the electric buzzing around growing louder as the lights on Monica’s house joined in fritzing up. Sam kept his hand on the dial, and on the radio, the voice was still speaking.

Dean turned to him.

Sam wrenched the car door open. “It’s coming.”

* * *

His tires were slashed when he reached his car.

_“Damn it!”_

Of course they’d slashed it. They were planning on letting him get out of here alive, after all. John looked around, mind racing, trying to think of anything he could do. If he could get to the street, he could try to get to a crowded area, get a ride away from here. He just needed to put some distance between himself and the demons.

He turned, running past the building.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t scoped the area out when he’d arrived, having opted instead to immediately check the interior, so he found himself taking a few turns. He reached a fence and a dead end and had to double back, running to the other end of the building to see if there was a way out there.

Another turn took him to a wall, and what looked like a back entrance to the warehouse. Another dead end.

He took his phone out. He needed help, he needed –

He was slammed against the wall. His phone clattered to the floor.

John tried to thrash against the nothing that was pinning him in place, unable to move as he was slowly lifted up, back pressed flat against the concrete. He gritted his teeth, biting down his screams as he felt his muscles suddenly constrict, like he was being squeezed into place.

From the shadows, from one of the open doors of this warehouse’s back entrance, the man from earlier – no, the demon – approached.

He smiled.

* * *

Dean quietly slid the card into the door’s side, pushing the bolt back and unlocking it. Slowly, he nudged the door forward, checking to see if the coast was clear.

Satisfied, he held the door open. Sam entered, footsteps light as he gave the hallway a once-over. It was dark, and his eyes were still adjusting from the lights outside, so he needed to keep his guard up. Behind him, Dean was just as silent, eyes forward as they entered the house.

_“Get out of my house!”_

Sam started at the sudden yell. Dean jumped as Monica’s husband swung a bat at him, smashing a lamp instead.

_“Get out of my house!”_

He darted forward, grabbing the bat before Monica’s husband could swing again. The man tried to wrestle the bat back, but Dean held firm, and considering the man probably held an office job that didn’t lend to much physical activity, the contest in strength was easy. Dean wrested the bat to the side as Monica’s husband held on, and used the momentum of his weight pulling him backwards to slam him into the wall, the bat pinned to his chest and keeping him against it.

Sam stepped forward. “Please – please, Mr. Holden – ”

Holden turned to Sam, confusion and fear in his eyes.

Dean kept him from squirming away. _“Be quiet and listen to me._ Be quiet and listen to me. We’re trying to help you, okay?”

_“Charlie?”_

That was from upstairs.

Monica.

For a moment, Holden stared at Dean.

_“Is everything okay down there?”_

He lifted his head and screamed. “Monica, get the baby!”

Sam turned to the stairs, voice frantic, _“Don’t go into the nursery!”_

“You stay away from her!” Holden pushed the bat off of him in a burst of adrenaline-fueled panic as Sam started for the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

With his hands off the bat, Dean fully took it from him and swung its butt right into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold. He caught him as he slumped forward, crouching to slide him over his shoulder in a fireman carry, and ran for the front door.

Upstairs, Sam got to the landing just as his brother knocked Holden out. He saw Monica through the room’s open doorway, standing there for a second before she was suddenly flung to the side.

There was the crib, right in front of him. Standing over it, a shadow.

Sam raised the Colt.

He could hear Monica whimpering as her skin grinded against the hardwood. The top of her head knocked onto the ceiling with a painful _thump._

Sam crossed the threshold. The shadow turned, its yellow eyes piercing in the darkness.

Sam froze.

Behind him, Monica screamed. “Rosie!”

He blinked, the sound jolting him back into the present. He raised the Colt, taking aim at the shadow.

He pulled the trigger.

He felt the recoil, felt his arms snap up at the force of the gun firing the shot. He could swear he saw the bullet cutting through the air and towards the shadow.

It disappeared in a burst of smoke.

Sam’s stomach dropped.

“Where the hell did it go?!”

Behind him, there was a scream, and a thump. _“My baby!”_

Right. Monica. He turned to help her up with his free hand. She tried to crawl forwards for the crib, but he held his arm out to stop her. “No, wait.”

“My baby!”

Dean rushed into the room, running past Sam and getting to the crib. “Take her and go!”

_“Rosie!”_

“Come on.” Sam started ushering Monica towards the hallway. She kept her eyes towards the crib, screaming, but unable to do much against Sam’s height and limbs as he forced her out of the bedroom.

_“My baby!”_

“Dean’s got her.”

Behind them, Dean wrapped the child up in its blanket, quickly but carefully taking her from her crib before bolting after his brother.

The crib burst into flames just as he ran into the hallway.

Monica thankfully was much more cooperative as she saw him running after Sam, and at the sight of the baby’s nursery on fire. All three of them ran down the stairs, crossing the living room and getting out the front door in a blur.

The nursery window exploded outwards just as they made it outside. Smoke and debris came with it, and Sam jumped back at the noise and the sudden burning in his lungs. Dean held the baby closer to his chest, making sure to shield it from the smoke as much as possible.

Sam staggered forward, one hand on Monica’s shoulder to help guide her forward as he squinted through the smoke, trying to navigate in the sudden brightness. The street came into view after a few minutes, and he could see Holden standing there, confusion marring his face, but clearing up into something more alert and angry as he spotted Sam and his wife.

“You get away from my family – ”

“No, Charlie, don’t.” Monica stepped forward, placating her husband, even with the panic still in her voice. Dean came to a stop behind Sam, and she turned her attention to the bundle in his arms. “They saved us.”

Tears beaded at the corners of Monica’s eyes. Dean carefully held Rosie out to her, and she took her daughter into her arms.

“They saved us,” she repeated, sounding a little dazed from her panic, but there was palpable relief in her voice.

Holden wrapped his arms around her, protective, and he hesitantly looked up at Sam and Dean.

“Thank you,” Monica said.

Sam didn’t say anything, turning back to the burning house instead. He’d fired the gun, earlier. He’d fired the gun, but the demon disappeared. It _disappeared._

Through the flames in the nursery window, there was a figure.

Sam saw red.

He ran forward, only for his brother to catch him, pushing him backwards with the ease of a linebacker. Sam’s shoes skidded against the asphalt as he tried to move, tried to push his brother off of him, but Dean held fast.

“It’s still in there!”

“ _Sam –_ Sam, no – ”

“Dean, let me go, _it’s still in there –_ ”

Dean shoved him back. “It’s burning to the ground, it’s _suicide._ ”

_“I don’t care!”_

_“I do!”_

Sam froze. He stared at his brother, at his wide, fearful eyes.

Dean was rarely afraid.

He turned to the nursery window again, where the flames were growing higher by the second. The heat broke through the chill of the night, warming Sam’s face as he stared at them. He was aware of Dean turning as well, watching the window.

The figure was still there.

And then it wasn’t.

Sam stared at the empty space, at the flames, at the burning house.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

They called the fire department for Monica and her family. Well, Dean did, with one of his burner phones, as the couple had both been too panicked to even grab a cell on the way out, and then when the crowd had gotten thick once the neighbors had noticed that a house was burning down on their street, Dean had stomped on the burner phone, tossed it into a ditch and drove off to their motel.

Sam had stayed silent, the whole time, letting his brother take care of the whole operation, and he’d said nothing as they both returned to their motel room.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the floor for. He didn’t even know Dean had been pacing until about a few seconds ago, when he’d realized he’d been spacing out, and that his brother had been walking around with a phone in hand for minutes now.

“Come on, dad, answer your phone, damn it,” Dean muttered.

After a while, he stopped, hanging up. “Something’s wrong,” he said, frustration in his voice.

Sam stared at the floor.

Dean turned to him. “You hear me? Something’s happened.”

“If you had just let me go in there, I could have ended all of this.”

Dean paused.

He approached, frowning. “Sam, the only thing you could have ended was your life.”

Sam looked up this time, glaring up at him. “You don’t know that.”

“So what, you’re just willing to sacrifice yourself? Is that it?”

Sam stood. “Yeah,” he said, straightening up to his full height, towering over Dean. “Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen. Not as long as I’m around.”

Dean turned, walking away, clearly taking the conversation as over.

Sam wasn’t having any of it.

“What the hell are you talking about, Dean?” he asked, voice slowly rising. “We’ve been searching for that demon our whole lives. It’s the _only thing_ we’ve ever cared about.”

“Sam, I wanna waste it too. I do, okay?” His brother turned back to him, making his way to stand in front of him, squaring up against his fury. _“But it’s not worth dying over.”_

Sam’s mind went still.

“What?” he asked.

“ _I mean it._ If hunting this demon means getting yourself killed?! Then I hope we never find the damn thing!”

Everything in him felt quiet.

“That thing killed Jess,” he said, slowly. “That thing killed _mom.”_

Dean’s expression calmed, but Sam could see it, in the way he held his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. Whatever calm there was forced. It was there so Sam would calm down, too. Dean always made himself calm whenever Sam was upset so he’d find an anchor to latch onto.

“You really think this is what they would want? You said it yourself once,” Dean said. “That no matter what we do, they’re gone. And they’re never coming back.”

Sam surged forward, grabbing Dean’s shirt and slamming him against the wall, teeth bared in rage.

_“Don’t you say that!”_ he grit out, barely getting the words out into something coherent. He sounded animalistic, almost, nothing but anger and hatefulness as he opened his mouth. _“Not you! Not after all of this - don’t you say that!”_

Dean was quiet, only staring at him with wide eyes.

When he spoke, his voice was soft: “Sam look,” he started. “The three of us, that’s all we have.” A pause of hesitation, but, “And it’s all I have.”

Sam stared at his hands, curled as they held his brother in place. He looked at the glassy look in Dean’s eyes, and found that he recognized it. They looked that way whenever John got angry, and Dean would quiet, for just a second.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together, man.”

Sam shook his head, slowly. What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck had he done?

Dean was still speaking. “Without you or dad…”

Hands trembling, Sam let Dean go, smoothing out his shirt, as if that would fix it, as if it would take it back, as if everything would go away if he could just fix a stupid piece of fabric.

He pulled back, turning away from Dean.

“Dad,” he muttered.

He could hear Dean trying to steady his breaths behind him.

Sam wiped at his eyes. He needed to stop. Why was he the one crying? He was the one who should be sorry out of both of them, what the fuck was wrong with him?

“He should have called by now. Try him again,” he said.

He could hear Dean move behind him, but he still didn’t dare move back. The phone beeped as Dean dialed in the number.

In the silence of the motel, Sam could hear the tinny ringing on the other line.

The call connected.

There was a voice on the other end.

_“You boys really screwed up this time.”_

This time, Sam did turn, just as Dean looked up, that wide-eyed look of fear on his face again. Sam curled and uncurled his fingers. They felt so cold.

“Where is he?” Dean asked, barely getting the words out.

Sam could hear the smile in Meg’s voice. His hands won’t stop shaking.

_“You’re never gonna see your father again.”_


End file.
